


The Young Blood Chronicles

by betterprepared



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Best Friends Fighting Monsters, Rebuilding Friendships, Save Rock and Roll (Album), Young Blood Chronicles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-10 22:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15301566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterprepared/pseuds/betterprepared
Summary: When Pete gets a call in the middle of the night from Mikey Way, he had no idea what would happen when he picked up the phone.Now, his lifelong friends are dead, he has a mysterious briefcase in his possession, and a threat is coming ever closer to Pete and the people around him. He and his ex-bandmates, whom haven't spoken to each other in nearly four years, must fight to save rock and roll.A novelisation of the Young Blood Chronicles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> In the process of complete and utter procrastination for my other fic I have resorted back to my love for the Young Blood Chronicles to de-stress and cure my writers block.
> 
> This will follow the basic storyline of YBC, with the added inclusion of extra scenes, fillers between the videos we already know and love, and extra characters for added realism. Who knows - maybe there'll be a plot twist or two? 
> 
> As with the original videos, there's going to be violence, torture, gore, and death. BUT nothing overly descriptive - I got you cautious readers xxx

It was 1am when Pete’s phone rang. 

He always kept his phone on at night, out of worry that someone will need him and he won’t be there to pick up. God knows how many times he woke up Patrick to talk when he was anxiety ridden or felt low - he knew it had helped him, so he thought it only fair to do the same for others.

Fumbling for his phone Pete rubbed at his eyes. Nobody had called him at this time in a while, he’d gotten out of practice. 

Through blurry eyes Pete registered that it was Mikey, and his eyebrows creased. He hadn’t talked to the guy in a while, a good few months actually – the hell if Pete knew what he was calling about at this time.

“Hello?” Pete mumbled, falling back into his pillows, eyes closed as he clumsily pressed the phone to his ear, half asleep.

“Pete,” came the shaken reply, “Oh my fucking God, Pete,” 

Pete opened his eyes blearily. The voice on the end of the phone, Mikey- it couldn’t be Mikey- was strained, ragged breaths puncturing the phone line.

“Pete...Pete they’re all dead,” Mikey whispered, his voice tight as he choked on his words, “Oh my God,”

Pete propped himself up on one elbow, blinking against the sleep in his eyes as he registered what had just been said, trying to straighten out his sleep-ridden thoughts, “Mike? Are you ok?”

“They’re dead Pete,” Mikey began to sob down the phone line, “They’re all dead,”

Pete felt his blood run cold. “Mike who’s dead?” Pete asked, “What-“

“Ray and Frank and- and Gerard too,” came the reply, “They’re dead Pete- oh God they’re dead,”

Pete felt his stomach drop as he sat up, all focus on the phone, ears straining against the tattered voice on the other end of the line, “What?” he heard himself say, a numbness hissing through his veins.

“There was this guy at one of our shows- he gave us this briefcase and told us that we had to keep it hidden or it would destroy everything we knew- and- and fuck we thought he was crazy but then they came Pete, they came for us,”

“Mikey this is insane-“ 

“We ran and we hid but they found us- we weren’t fast enough and they killed Ray and Frank and Gerard he- he told me to run so I did, I left him Pete, my own brother- I left him- I heard him screaming Pete, he was screaming for me-“

“Tell me this is some kind of joke,” Pete interrupted hoarsely, “Mike-“

“I know how it sounds,” Mikey replied, voice shaking violently, “But I’m telling the truth Pete- they’re going to kill me,” his voice cracked at the end of his sentence,

“Who’s going to kill you? Who’s coming?” Pete demanded, throwing his sheets aside and getting to his feet, head spinning,

“I don’t know Pete,” Mikey sobbed, “I don’t know, but- but they’re coming for me Pete I’m...I’m going to die, they’re going to kill me,” 

“Mike where are you?” Pete demanded, voice growing louder and more frantic by the minute,

“I don’t know!” Mikey choked frantically into the phone, “I don’t know Pete, I don’t fucking know where I am!”

“Call the cops,” Pete said, “Call the fucking cops right now,”

“I can’t,” Mikey replied, voice boarder lining on hysterical, “I can’t Pete because they’re in the cops too, I don’t know how, I don’t know,”

“Mike I-” Pete ran his fingers through his hair, head pounding,

“I’m dead Pete,” Mikey whispered, “I’m fucking dead,”

“Mikey you need to tell me exactly where you are,”

“I don’t know Pete,” Mikey moaned, “Like... a warehouse in LA or something it doesn’t matter,”

“Yes it does matter!” Pete persisted, voice rising in pitch as the panic grew. Oh God. Oh God. “Mikey you need to call the police right now,”

“NO!” came the urgent reply, “Pete I can’t!”

“Mike-“

“They _are_ the police, they have connections, they...like...control them or something- I don’t know but you can’t call them!”

“What the fuck have you gotten yourself into,” Pete breathed down the line,

There was a pause on the end of the line before Mikey spoke again, “We hid the briefcase Pete,” he said hoarsely, “We knew they were coming and we hid it before they found us,”

“Mikey-“

“You have to go and get it Pete,” Mikey breathed down the phone, “They’re gonna find me and they’re gonna know we hid it - but they can’t find it Pete, they can’t find it,”

“What’s in it? What’s this important?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Mikey whimpered, “I don’t know what’s in it but they can’t get it Pete- they’ll destroy all of us if they do, they’ll destroy everything,”

There was a pause as Pete took in the information, Mikey’s whimpers punctuating every thought. 

“Ok,” Pete said adamantly, “Ok I’m calling the cops,” he said, reaching for the home phone on his bedside table,

“No! No Pete! They can’t get it, they can’t get it Pete!” Mikey interrupted frantically, the terror in his voice putting Pete to a standstill.

“I’m not leaving you there to die!”

“Pete just get the case,” Mikey pleaded, “You just need to get the case before they do,”

Pete stood up, taking a moment to think, “...Where is it,” he said exasperated, 

“Our practice space in New Jersey,” Mikey breathed in relief, “Remember?”

Pete remembered. He’d been there so many times in the last 7 years he’d lost count. 

“Ok,” he mumbled into the phone, “Ok I’ll go and get it,”

He heard a shaky sigh of relief on the end of the line. “Thank you,” Mikey whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. 

“Mike you need to get yourself out of there, ok?”

“I don’t think I can,” Mikey whispered,

“No, Mikey, I’m doing this for you, now you have to get the fuck out of there,” Pete said, his voice growing in urgency,

“No, no, Pete I-“ he broke off suddenly, his sentence ending in a strangled whimper,

“Mikey?” 

“They’re here,” he breathed into the phone, his voice barely audible,

“Mikey,” Pete said, his voice urgent, frantic, “Mike listen to me – are there any exits that you can get too?”

“No- no, Pete, I can’t get out- I can’t get out, they’re going to get me,” Mikey began to weep softly into the phone, his words muffled like he was pressing a hand over his mouth, and for the next few beats Pete heard naught but strangled breaths.

“...Mikey?” he whispered, hardly daring to breathe,

“...D’you- d’you remember the Warped Tour, back in ’05,” Mikey whispered shakily through tears, “When we...when...”

“Of course I do,”

“They were some crazy fucking months,” Mikey laughed, the noise broken and wet.

“Mikey-,” Pete replied back, his throat closing up on him,

“Bury us together Pete,” Mikey whimpered, his voice sounding terrifyingly final, “Please,”

And then the phone went dead.

And Pete stood, fixated to the spot, the dead line humming in his ear.


	2. Chapter 2

Gerard Arthur Way, Michael James Way, Raymond Manuel Toro-Ortiz and Frank Anthony Thomas Iero were laid to rest on the 28th of January 2013 in Summerlin, Nevada.

The four were murdered on the 18th of January in an abandonned warehouse in LA and found early morning the next day. 

After the post mortem, the police returned to the friends and family of the four with what they determined had happened.

“A hate crime,” they had explained, “Presumably against their style of music and style of life,”

It had been concluded that the team had been caught in the warehouse, searching for a place to hide. The positioning of the bodies made it relatively easy to determine the course of events.

Frank had been found first. Knocked to the floor via a blow to the head as he ran, the force as his head hit the concrete ground would have left him dazed, giving his attacker time to straddle him before he was aware what was happening. There was large wound across his abdomen, determined to be the result of a large meat knife. His death would have been slow.

Ray had been the second. He had been caught from behind, not far from Frank, and his throat slit, the attacker leaving him convulsing on the floor as he bled to death. 

There was a considerable distance between Ray and the third body. Gerard was found lying at the bottom of the metal steps of the warehouse, leading up to the second floor. His face was near unrecognisable, having been smashed into the brick wall beside his body, no doubt. His neck had been broken for good measure.

And finally, was the fourth. Mikey was found on the second level in what was once the manager’s office. There was a knife through his heart, a musical note with a line drawn through painted on the wall by his head in a slick scarlet liquid, later discovered to be his blood.

And that was that. 

There was no other details released to the family, no investigation into their deaths. The police had claimed it was a cold case with no leads to follow, and what could the family do but resign to their insistence?

As a result, the grief for the four men was plundered in further despair and unrest. 

Standing at the door of the church, Patrick couldn’t help but note the unbearably large weight that hung over the funeral.

He watched as the funeral procession carried the coffins to four gaping holes in the ground, the respective families clinging to each other and crying softly as they followed.

Patrick wrapped his coat around himself further, hugging his arms close to his body against the freezing wind. He couldn’t bring himself to join them. He knew that by doing so, he was only one step closer to having to say that final goodbye. He’d much rather not say any goodbye at all. 

“Hey,” a voice said awkwardly, a figure shuffling to a stop next to Patrick, visible out of the corner of his eye.

Patrick turned to the voice, belonging to a lanky figure with a mop of hair. Joe. His heart sank a little bit. He didn’t want to have to deal with the inevitable awkward conversation they would have, not today. 

“Hey,” he eventually replied,

“It’s been a while,” Joe said, eyes focused straight ahead, at the mourning party coming to a stop, squinting against the wind a little.

“Two years,” Patrick said, “That Christmas party...Ray’s...”

“Yeah...”

Patrick’s eyes focused on the third casket. He pressed his lips together in a straight line.

“It’s...it’s bullshit y’know?” Joe said after a couple seconds of silence, “They never did anything to hurt anybody- so why- why’d they have to be...” he trailed off, the unspoken word lingering in the air.

Patrick didn’t say anything.

“And...y’know we don’t even know what happened to them,” Joe continued, the hurt evident in his voice, “The way the cops just washed their hands of the whole thing is just disgusting…A hate crime? A fucking hate crime?”

“It’s bullshit,” Patrick muttered,

“And now they’re just some tragic bullshit story that people are going to eventually forget,” Joe said bitterly, taking out a cigarette and lighter.

There was silence as he put the cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hand around the lighter, attempting to ignite a flame. Patrick watched as it suddenly sprang to life, flickering precariously in the wind. Joe lit his cigarette and shoved the lighter back into his pocket before taking a drag. 

“You sure you should be doing that?” Patrick asked, nodding towards the cigarette,

“Frank said something once about not wanting people to be all depressed when he died, “ Joe muttered, “This is me not being depressed,” 

Patrick noted the anger in his voice. The steel that hid away how awful he really felt. Joe didn’t cope well with sadness. He smothered it with anger and frustration and carried on, leaving with Patrick no option but to listen and keep his company.

“Is Andy here?” he eventually asked, 

“Mhmm,” Joe said, “He’s…” he gestured behind them, back inside the church, “Ray’s brother couldn’t make it out here so Andy’s making sure he’s alright…you know what he’s like,”

Patrick nodded, “Is he ok?”

“He’s as good as you can be in a situation like this,” Joe said, “Which is pretty fucking awful,”

“What about Pete? Have you seen him?” Patrick asked, unable to refrain from asking. 

“No,” Joe said rubbing the back of his neck, “I don’t think he came,”

Neither said anything for a moment. Each knew exactly what the other was thinking. Pete would be passed out drunk on the couch, vomit running down his chin. 

“Do you think he’s ok?” Pete asked quietly,

Joe sighed, "Not even a little a bit," he replied.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a knock at the door.

“Sir?”

The was another knock, more persistent this time.

“Sir?”

Patrick rolled over onto his side, eyes opening groggily. The alarm clock by the hotel bed said it was 10:30. 

“Yes?” he said, voice still gravelled from sleep.

“Sorry to bother you,” came a young male’s voice, slightly muffled by the door, “But we have a couple checking into your room at midday – we just wanted to make sure that you’ll be ready to leave within the hour,””

“Yeah- yeah sure,” Patrick replied, turning onto his back, pressing his hands against his face.

“Great,” the voice said, “Thank you!”

Patrick groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and sat up on the bed.

His clothes from the funeral were littered across the floor, thrown carelessly away as Patrick had stripped to his boxers and crawled into the warm safety of the hotel bed last night, insistent on sleeping the nightmare away. He scowled, and pulled himself out of bed to put his things away – neatly tripping over yesterday’s pizza box in the process.

First, he dressed – pulling on a baggy grey shirt Dirty had given him when his luggage had gotten lost in Ontario years ago. It had been big for him even back then, so it was huge on him now, but all the same, it was a comfort. An old familiar shirt was what he needed right now. Familiarity. Stability. Yes. He had his favourite shirt and he’d be home by tonight. He’d be home and he’d be ok. 

Patrick began to pick up the rest of his clothes, the stragglers on the cream carpet of the hotel room. One by one he tossed them into the suitcase, pants, shirt, dress shirt, jeans, socks, blazer- _shit_. 

As he threw the blazer it smacked the lid of the suitcase and a sharp crack rang across the room. Patrick groaned. He had left his phone in the pocket, switching it off and shoving it in as he’d reached the yesterday’s funeral.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Patrick crossed the room and dug in the case for his phone, groaning again at the large crack going down the centre of the screen once he had found it. He switched it on, only dreading the endless messages of sympathy – the endless, endless bullshit – that he would have received in the hours he was off the grid. 

The sight of 16 missed calls, however, was not one Patrick expected to see.

Brow furrowing, Patrick clicked onto his phonebook, heart sinking as he saw that every single call was from Pete. 

But then, it was hardly unexpected. Everyone knew how close Pete had been with the four – Mikey especially. There was no way Pete was taking this well.

He held back on his gut reaction to call back though, finger resting on Pete’s contact profile. It was picture-less, Patrick never bothering to upload one after he changed his phone, which – he knew – would make it a whole lot easier to ignore Pete outright. 

That’s certainly what his common sense was telling him to do. 

Pete had a habit of draining everything Patrick had, energy, time, and emotion, every time he got upset; often standing on Patrick in his scramble to get out of his deepest depressive states. It was certainly never purposefully, and anyway, Patrick would have gladly given him everything he had to put a smile on the guy’s face, but that was before.

Before the spitting gripes and cutting words; before Pete got utterly addicted to those _fucking pills_ and became lazy, disinterested, not giving a fuck if he hurt anybody around him; before 2010, when Patrick had been in the darkest place he had ever been in his life, and Pete ignored his texts, his calls, his everything, leaving him to suffer alone – drinking himself into a stupor, hating his body, his voice, himself, and lying awake every night wondering why he ever gave so much away to the asshole who had abandoned him. 

The last time they had met Pete had shown up at his door out of the blue, near incoherent with alcohol and pills. Furious, disgusted, heartbroken as he realised that all Pete would ever do is take from him and never give back, Patrick had phoned Joe to pick him the mess at his front door, and by the next day Pete was in rehab. 

Patrick didn’t bother contacting him when he got out. 

That had been three years ago and they hadn’t spoken since. 

_‘He doesn’t deserve it,’_ Patrick could hear his subconsciousness at the back of his head _‘He’ll do it all over again, you’re not strong enough to give him your everything this time,’_

Patrick breathed out steadily through his nose. 

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew that it was going against his best interests. 

But the thought of Pete, gaunt and grieving, was too much. The last time he had lost someone close to him he’d ended up in a Best Buy parking lot with a lethal amount of Ativan.

Fucking Pete.

_Fuck._

Patrick sat heavily on the hotel bed. With a final look at his phone, he pressed dial. 

The phone barely rang twice before it connected. 

“Patrick?” Pete’s voice came rushing in over the speaker, low and sounding weary, “I’ve been calling for hours, you really freaked me out,”

It sounded so familiar it made Patrick’s chest ache with memories. It had been years since he had heard his voice.

“My phone was switched off for the funeral,” Patrick muttered apologetically, the words hanging in the air between them.

Pete’s swallowed audibly, “How was it?” 

“Horrible,” Patrick replied after a moment, the unspoken question _‘where were you?’_ lingering over the phone line.

“I wish I’d been there,”

“You should have come, people were asking about you,”

“You know how I get with these things,” Pete explained lowly, “I couldn’t,”

Patrick put his head in his free hand. He did know. “How are you doing?” he asked softly, noticing to his unease how similar this conversation felt,

“I’m…” Pete paused, “I just miss them, that’s all,”

“I know,” he replied, “Me too,” 

There was an uneasy silence until Patrick spoke again, “Sixteen calls though…are you sure you’re ok?”

“I…I just…” Pete huffed a soft sigh over the phone line, “I just really need to talk to you. In person,”

Patrick turned his face into his hand and rubbed a thumb across his eyebrows, exasperated. It was the same story, repeating itself.

“I don’t know Pete,” he muttered, 

“I know we haven’t seen each other in a while ‘Trick- I know I don’t deserve it- but I need you. Please,” there was a second before Pete spoke again, his voice resigned, ashamed even. Patrick wondered if he was thinking about the last time they met, “It’ll be the last time, I swear,”

The smartest thing to do for Patrick’s interests, he knew, would be to refuse. But he’d never been good at saying no to Pete. 

“I fly home this afternoon. I can stop by your place tomorrow,”

“Could you come tonight?” 

Patrick frowned, “Pete-“

“Please? Just for an hour or so,” 

Patrick took his hand from his face wearily. He knew without a moments thought that he was going to say yes, “…Fine,”

“Thank you,” Pete’s smile could be heard in his voice, 

“I’m landing in Chicago at five, so I’ll be at yours by seven, ok?”

“Ok,”

“I’ll see you then, then,”

“Thank you Patrick,”

“No worries. I’ll see you tonight,”

“See you,”

Patrick hung up, not used to such awkward farewells with someone he shared a bus with for seven years straight. 

He put his phone on the bed, looking at his still half packed suitcase. 

Despite his unease, he couldn’t help the smallest thrill of relief. After so many years, perhaps now he and Pete could get closure.

With a breath, Patrick stood and set to work packing his things, trying not to think about what he and Pete were going to talk about this afternoon – trying not to think specifically about what he had just gotten himself into.


End file.
